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“I don’t think that’s true,” my 10-year-old daughter said, “I don’t think God gets mad at people.”
My girl was describing to me something she heard about God. Her inquisitive brain always warms my heart, and I love the conversations we get to have about God. In the moment I received my faith (or constructed it) I also began deconstructing my faith. Because to someone like me, who finds comfort and identity in the questioning and learning, deconstructing and reconstructing faith is a constant, real-time cycle of belief. But there are big moments of deconstruction, and J hits on it in her honest reflection. As we move into holy week, there is so much to contemplate about the dying of Christ, and then the coming to life of Christ on Easter Sunday. My big question is: how can I understand the death of Christ when I no longer believe in the wrath of God? I’ve done my fair share of studying atonement theories. I know that I was taught penal substitutionary atonement (PSA) growing up, though I doubt the leaders of my Pentecostal church knew it was called that. I read R.C. Sproul and several other reformed theologians. I had constant conversations at my college cafeteria table about theology and atonement. I had to turn in journaling assignments to one of my writing profs and I was always blabbing on about theology. He stopped me one day and asked if I considered going to divinity school. I landed somewhere near TULIP, but more like TUIP, because the limited atonement piece bothered me (but the total depravity didn’t?). Even with the genuinely horrible people leading our nation, and the depravation of humanity coming to light in the Epstein Files, I still reject God as a wrathful being. But I don’t really know how to reconcile it all. I think these people deserve punishment. But I also firmly believe that justice and violence are never the same. Jesus died in one of the most inhumane and unjust ways. And if he didn’t die to appease God’s wrath, why did he have to die? Maybe he was crucified as a way of showing victory over the powers of evil and death (Christus Victor atonement theory) or maybe Jesus was killed by human wrath and shows us just now nonviolent God will be in the face of violence (Non-Violent atonement). Many argue that when Jesus says, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do,” it’s proof of the need for atonement. But there’s also the other side of that: “In each Gospel we discover that God didn’t need the cross in order to forgive. The truth of God’s “grace upon grace” is that God forgives sinners, tax collectors, and cowardly disciples, in other words, everyone, before Jesus even went to the cross. —Adam Erickson, The Nonviolent Atonement: God’s Grace Upon Grace And Christ’s forgiveness was so palpable with his disciples. As I’ve said before: Judas’ presence at the Last Supper tells us that even those who betray God are welcome at God’s table. It’s the inclusiveness I cannot get over. While agonizing in the pain and suffering he’s in the middle of enduring, Jesus transfers identity and creates a new family dynamic with two sentences: Woman here is your son. And here is your mother. (John 19:26-27) If Christ is a reflection of God, this moment feels miraculous. Christ can no longer take care of Mary economically. He cannot be there for her. There is another who can take over his protector, provider, and familial role. Another who can love her well. So the family expands. Dear woman, here is your son. He can be for you what I cannot. And here is your mother. As Christ offers a new mother-child relationship to his earthly mother, maybe this is also a greater reflection of what he came to do. He makes a way for his spiritual mother, the Holy Spirit. But I tell you I am going to do what is best for you. This is why I am going away. The Holy Spirit cannot come to help you until I leave. But after I am gone, I will send the Spirit to you. (John 16:7) Franciscan school of thought says about the cross, “Jesus was not changing God’s mind about us; he was changing our minds about God.” What if we saw Jesus as midwife. Dear Mother God, here are your sons and daughters. Daughters and sons, here is your Mother. You belong to each other.
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 Clouds & FireAnd the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of cloud to lead them along the way, and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, that they might travel by day and by night. The pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night did not depart from before the people. … Then the angel of God who was going before the host of Israel moved and went behind them, and the pillar of cloud moved from before them and stood behind them, coming between the host of Egypt and the host of Israel. And there was the cloud and the darkness. And it lit up the night without one coming near the other all night.
—Exodus 13:21-22; 14:19-20 It has been rare for me not to know where my next meal would come from or if it would come. Even so, those moments stay with me. They—along with the memories of annoyed and judgy faces in the grocery store as I pulled out my WIC vouchers, counting every dollar and saving every quarter, and a meticulous envelope system—are in the past. But the past is not easily forgotten. And in some ways, I hope it never is; it keeps me grounded. I don’t judge my neighbor for getting her nails done even if she can’t keep the rest of her life together. I give more generously because I know what it is like to not have what you need, let alone what you want. But it also has a way of springing up unexpectedly. I often wonder: what can I do now to never be back there again? Planning and prepping with hell-bent focus that stresses me to exhaustion some days. What are we supposed to do with a past always before us like a cloud? I started getting mammograms in my late 30s because of my family’s history of breast cancer. Prevention has increased since then: every other day I take a pill called Tamoxifen that reduces estrogen in my body. I’m not sure I’ll ever know if I’m in perimenopause, or if I’m experiencing the symptoms because of my medicine. Recently, I felt a lump on my breast. A physical examination, two ultrasounds, and a diagnostic mammogram later, I can take a deep breath knowing I don’t have cancer … yet. I thought I’d feel more relief. I did feel some. But I also felt the weight of my future. I often wonder: will it always be this way? Waiting with trepidation to see if my high probability turns into reality. Wondering what decisions I’ll make one day about mastectomies, reconstructive surgeries, and care. Wondering how I’ll keep showing up for the people who depend on me. What are we supposed to do with a future always before us like fire? Two days ago, I broke down. The cloud of my past and the fire of my future would not depart from me. I felt I was wandering aimlessly. There were days not too long ago where I believed with all my heart that everything happened for a reason, and God ordained it all. There were days I argued and persuaded others on that perspective. But like my youth, it too has passed, and now I find myself between the ancient story of the people of God and my present life that feels so far from those people. So far from the ways I used to identify with them. So far from the comfort I had in having the answers I swore their stories gave me. And yet, a different comfort finds me now. One that says you don’t have to have all the answers to be holy. You don’t have to strive to be someone else’s version of a Christian to be righteous. You don’t have to know what to do with the clouds and the fires. You don’t have to figure out how they somehow save you from evil. Maybe there’s comfort in the story, that it is a story. Not some divine and magical guidebook that you must match your life with. Not some filter through which all things must pass. The Exodus story is one of a people group seeking and finding God through miracles of bread from heaven, water from a rock, and guidance from nature. Ultimately, theirs is a story of a successful migration away from slavery and exploitation. --- Decades ago, my great aunt and Catholic nun, Sister Grace Miller, and I were discussing the Genesis story. Hers is a story of a life dedicated to serving Christ. A life I will always look up to: one of service and sacrifice and the most tangible expression of unconditional love I have ever seen. “Do you believe the creation story is literal—historical fact?” I asked her. “Does it matter?” she replied. --- Mine is a story of a girl seeking and finding God through the miracle of letting go of all I was certain of, releasing the idea that there is only one way to look at Scripture, only one way to follow Christ, only one theology that counts. Only one viewpoint of who God could be. Mine is a story of learning how to give myself freedom to see other perspectives, read other interpretations of the Bible, and still find my identity in Christ. Mine is a story of seeing a bigger God now than I ever could have imagined back then. Maybe I, too, am successfully migrating away from slavery and exploitation. The clouds of my past and the fire of my future may always be before me. They may lead me, or blind me, or both. But I am not just the sum of my past or the probability of my future. I, too, am also my present. What I do today will be informed by both cloud and fire but not bound by either. Not ordained but autonomously chosen. Originally published as Advent Day 10 of Radvent.org in 2019
Isaiah 9:4-6 Song: Your Peace Will Make Us One by Audrey Assad I've seen You in our home fires burning with a quiet light You are mothering and feeding in the wee hours of the night Your gentle love is patient, You will never fade or tire Your peace will make us one. Hope is an inter-generational reverberation that pulses from the beginning of time through the present to eternity and back again. Hope is a revolution that begins in darkness—from the very foundations of the earth—reminding us that when we sense darkness, hope is always nearby, whispering, speaking, or shouting its strong melody. Hope might be invisible, but she moves upon the earth finding her welcome at the feet of those who know suffering, in the eyes of those unable to see because of thick darkness, in the voices of those who never speak to crowds, in the walking sticks of those who traverse between faith and doubt, the ones who must lean in order to stand. “Suffering naturally gives rise to doubt. How can one believe in God in the face of such horrendous suffering as slavery, segregation, and the lynching tree? Under these circumstances, doubt is not a denial but an integral part of faith. It keeps faith from being sure of itself. But doubt does not have the final word. The final word is faith giving rise to hope.” ― James H. Cone, The Cross and the Lynching Tree Hope came in the sinews of a vulnerable woman, in her growing and uncomfortable bosom, in the very darkness of her nurturing womb. The yoke of the oppressed was shattered not by a powerful, greedy, blood-thirsty revenge-seeking king, but by a humble, self-sacrificing, blood-drained inclusive-loving King. Fuel for the fire of audacious hope. Power to carry the reverberation through eternity. His fire has a quiet light, his kindom is slow coming, his humanity authentic. Hope came in the deepest cry of Christ’s humanity: God! Why have you forsaken me? Papa! Where are you? I can’t see you. I can’t sense you. Come! Hope comes when we mimic his cry. When we don’t cover our authentic humanity in a mask of who we think we ought to be. When hope seems so very far away, it is our vulnerability that brings her close. Hope comes when we scream out to the God we believe (help-our-unbelief!) is ever-present but often isn’t sensed. When the sky is falling, when the world is on fire, it is a child who teaches us to ask our father for a cold glass of water. It is a child who grows in awkwardness and grace into the Prince of Peace he always has been and ever will be. It is a child who reminds us to let the little children come in all their mess and humanity. A child will teach us to move to the reverberation of hope. Ring. Ring.
“Hi Gena. She’s just passed.” My head sank. We expected this. We had been expecting it for months. But when the world loses someone like Grace, you really feel it. For those who don’t know Grace, this story sheds light on the type of person she was: One day, she witnessed an injustice toward an unhoused man who had come in to find respite and sit on a bench at the settlement house she worked at. “Get out!” the director yelled at the man, throwing a paper cup of water on him. The man had a mental illness and simply came to the office every day because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. The director was having a meeting, but Grace walked into the closed doors and interrupted the meeting. She said, “Why did you throw him out?! All he did was sit there! He wasn’t doing anything harmful!” In an interview with me she told me, “I wanted him to know I was very upset about it.” After that incident, Grace went and checked on the man. His arms were shaking, he was physically and emotionally wrought. That happened midweek. By Friday, Grace was fired. “I knew I would lose my job, but there was an injustice. I felt that man had no one to speak for him. He couldn’t speak for himself. I knew in my heart and gut that what the director did was wrong,” she said. Grace Mary Miller, born in July 1935, was named after her paternal grandmother, Grazia. The Italian version of her name was Grazia Maria Mierolo, but she never used that, even though I called her Zia Grazia sometimes making her smile deeply. When Grace’s grandfather first came the United States from Italy, he americanized his name to Miller so he’d get hired by the railroad company—notorious for not hiring Italians. After 90 years of life, the last standing of her generation in our family, Grace passed on to join many others in our family including her twin brother, Neil, and her beloved older sister, Gina, of whom I am named after. She left a wake in her passing that will be felt for generations. The events of the following days had me often thinking about her worldview of good and bad, her legacy of mothering, and the ways in which I know she lives on. THURSDAY Grace died on a Thursday afternoon. I had already signed up to attend a community meeting on the immigration and economic issues our community was facing, especially the effects the Big Beautiful Bill will have on our neighbors and our community. I had just started getting involved in a nonpartisan, progressive organization. Earlier that week, I had taken a training from an immigrant rights organization teaching Charlotte metro area residents how to respond when Customs and Border Patrol (CBP) showed up. Charlotte had a lot of incidents during what was called Operation Charlotte’s Web. But the people of Charlotte showed up, too, and disrupted a lot of potential illegal apprehensions. A group of us was working toward organizing if CBP showed up in my county which borders Charlotte’s county. As I sat there at the local art studio, looking around at the many people in my own community I had never met, I thought, this is exactly the type of meeting Grace would attend—or lead. Her constant fight for justice, especially for the homeless, made a name for herself —infamous to some politicians she wouldn’t stop holding accountable—in Rochester, New York. We talked about how the absence or reduction of SNAP benefits would affect children, families, and the economy. We talked about housing and homelessness. We talked about the reduction to the public education budget in North Carolina, and how that would affect education overall. If Grace were sitting next to me at that table, she would have had a lot to say about each of these. She had 35 years of experience serving Rochester’s unhoused, and she never waivered on her stance to keep the doors open of the House of Mercy, the low-barrier shelter she founded which imposed no limits on how long a resident could stay. She told me a story of one man who stayed a full year at the shelter. She had several people tell her to kick him out. She wouldn’t. He knew others thought he should leave. Months after he left, he came back with an envelope for her. He had set aside some money from his new job to give back to the House of Mercy. Four years ago, when I interviewed her, she said, “It’s like people want rules and regulations, law and order. I believe there’s only one word: and it is love. It’s radical compassion, and it’s caring and loving the people who need us most. Rules and regulations keep people out. Inclusivity, that’s what Jesus was about: including the people that law and order said no to. He walked with the people who were rejected in society: the lame, the blind, he cured them and healed them out of love. He didn’t put them in institutions. He showed love and compassion and care. It’s just one word: love. And love encompasses all that. You can be crucified for living like that or wanting to live like that.” FRIDAY The day after Grace died, my son’s school had a fake bomb threat in the morning. In the evening, three teenagers fired shots in our little downtown during the annual Christmas tree lighting, a large community gathering where many families with little children were watching school choirs and dance troupes, shopping at businesses that opened specifically for the event, and enjoying the Grinch movie playing on a large screen TV in the middle of the closed-off street. I feel Grace's words in my bones: “I believe in giving people second chances. And sometimes those in authority don’t like that. But people need that." I read that one of the 17-year-olds will be charged as an adult if he comes out of critical condition. And I hear the voices of those around me ready to say, “He deserves more.” And I feel that. I wonder what the teenager who called in the fake bomb threat will face as a punishment, and part of me is eagerly awaiting to hear what the punishment will be. That threat came on the heels of a high-school walk out protesting the presence of CBP and ICE in the area. For the past two weeks, immigrant neighbors have been scared. They have not left their homes to even go to the grocery store. School attendance decreased. My friend from Central America said to me, “It’s worse than COVID, because at least with COVID, we could put a mask on and leave our houses.” After the events of Friday, I feel her words so deeply: school was not safe. Shopping was not safe. It was not safe to attend community events. SATURDAY On Saturday, I attended a social event that had me wondering what makes people make the right choices, and what makes people choose poorly? Is it social capital? Is it familial bonds? Is it upbringing? But what if the difference is so stark even within the same family structure? Is it opportunity? Morality? What is it? SUNDAY On Sunday, our pastor reminded us of the moment that Christ is on the cross and the thief asks to be remembered in Christ’s kingdom. “Today, you will join me in paradise,” Christ says. She talked about how God is there in the moments we think are too dark for God. There is no darkness that is too dark. I’m not sure I can make sense of all I feel. When we get what we deserve, is that justice? When we don’t get what we deserve, is that mercy? Who decides what we deserve? When we get a mix of justice and mercy, do we become better humans? Ones that would never tear families apart? Ones that would never traumatize communities? Ones that would say to someone who has overstayed their welcome: stay longer. Ones that would stand up to injustice? What makes a human bad? Who is bad? Is it the director who threw water on the innocent man? Is it Border Patrol ‘just doing their job’? Is it the one who called in the fake bomb threat? Is it the one who fired shots around many innocent bystanders? Or should good and bad be reserved as modifiers of decisions, not human beings? TODAY On Thanksgiving morning, one week after her death, here's what I do know: As a child, Grace dreamed of having twelve sets of twins. But then when she grew up, she became a nun and took a vow of poverty. And yet, her dream came true in a very different kind of way. She became the mother of whole community of people who needed her most, at great sacrifice. “People [at The House of Mercy] feel that there is someone who has the mother qualities they’ve lacked in life, they feel they’ve found a mother. There’s no pomp and circumstance. They see me as a mother. They come because they know they’ll be helped, they won’t be turned away. They know that. They know that they are accepted and loved and the door is always opened to them no matter what,” she said. Juxtaposed against Grace's life, as a mother, it feels somewhat easy to mother my young children. Grace saw the world through mother-like eyes, and I’m not sure I’ve developed that skill fully just yet. This is the legacy Grace leaves: not just to be a mother, but to mother the world. To feel the pain of others and take it on as your own. When we move from noun to verb—which I do not think is assigned only to one gender—I think we start to see the adjectives of bad and good only belonging to decisions. Humans are not illegal. Humans are not bad. Nor good. But decisions are. TOMORROW I will continue to wrestle with my questions of right and wrong, justice and mercy. I will continue to hope that the essence of who Grace is will live on in the many people she mothered along the way, including me. This is a short story -- a piece of fiction -- written after hearing that many women are researching if they can actually hide their votes from their husbands.  I’m so glad our polling place got redistricted to the Methodist church around the corner. In 2020, I ended up in a stall so close to Billy, I just felt him breathing on me. There weren’t no way I coulda voted against his candidate without having a panic attack right then and there, worried he’d see and tear me a new one. He’s never hit me, but Lord knows I know my place and I also know what he’s capable of. Last polling place, they didn’t have us put our ballots facedown neither. Oh no, that time it was face up, and I was so relieved to just have voted for who my husband had been rattling on and on about. “The Empowerer of the Working Man” he called him.
But this year it was the Methodist church and they got thick dividers between the triple stands and some were even standalone cubicle thingys. All had curtains to pull so your vote was private. This was a big step above the last place. Lucky for me there was no other open spot but the stand alone one, and the election worker told me to go to it. You better believe I took my time filling out those circles, planning it so that Billy would be long done, impatient and waiting outside. Once I heard the lady at the machine say, “You gotta turn it upside down sir. It’s gotta be face down,” to the man in the Adidas track suit, I knew I could get away with it. On the front page of the ballot, I circled in every name with a Democrat beside it. Not because I knew who they were, but because maybe them getting in office would help keep his power in check a bit more than last time if he were to win again. Who knows? I don’t know a whole lot about all this politics stuff, but I do know a few things. My best friend Shirley told me that Billy can’t find out later that I voted for who he called “Miss Muppet the Puppet.” It’s against the rules, Shirley said, and shit did that make me hopeful. But I looked it up to make sure she was right. I also know that one day when my little girl becomes a woman and asks me who I voted for, I’ll be able to confidently tell her that the second time around I didn’t make the same mistake. He Who Empowered My Husband made me feel invisible and worthless, significantly more than I have ever felt in the past. And I don’t agree with all abortions, but I had to have one when Sunny was little because of a placenta complication in my second pregnancy. Sunny would have no mom right now if we lived in Mississippi when it happened. Who knows what’s going to happen here in North Carolina with all that. She’ll be a teenager in two years, and I don’t want him making her feel worthless or invisible. Middle school is hard enough as it is. So I took my time, and just to be safe in case Billy was taking a while too, I filled in all Republicans on the back side including the school board now too since they listed ‘em there as Democrats or Republicans even though I hate the way they changed Sunny’s school. But there’s enough angry folks in this county with the poor decisions made by that board. I can only fight one battle at a time. When I pulled that curtain open, I walked with more confidence than I’ve ever had. Smirk on face, face-down ballot. Heart full of hope. Billy was four people ahead of me in the submit-your-ballot-into-the-machine line and looked back and smiled. Calmly my smirk morphed into the I’m-still-your-submissive-wife smile and he had no clue. When I met him outside, he asked if I knew what the constitutional amendment referendum was all about. I shrugged my shoulders and said I didn’t, even though Shirley had told me all about it and I voted against it. This is another thing I know: if I play dumb, I don’t make him feel dumb. For a long time I thought that’s what empowered him. Turns out it’s other men saying they can grab women when and where they want and they’ll protect women whether they want protection. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get the courage to show off a little bit more of my intelligence. Maybe not. Either way, it’s me who feels empowered today. GUEST POST by a friend of Gena's who prefers to remain anonymous
Ever since I became a mother, I have been questioned by strangers regarding my relationship with my kids. People have asked me things like, “Don’t you want to have your own kids?” and “Do you know much about his real parents?” I get these questions more often than other mothers because my children are Black and my husband and I are white; therefore, our interracial family doesn't look like it “matches.” My husband and I adopted our two children as infants through a domestic adoption agency. Ever since my husband and I started talking about adoption, I have tried to educate myself as much as possible on transracial adoption, especially because I knew that my Black children would grow up with vastly different experiences than I had. I have learned the most from listening to adult adoptees, especially those that were adopted transracially. One of the main messages I hear over and over is how much language matters, especially when heard by children. The following phrases and questions are some of the things we have been asked or heard from others. I would like to share some thoughts on how they can convey certain assumptions and suggest some more appropriate language to use in some situations. “Don’t you want to have your own kids?” When it comes to generalized discussions about why we chose adoption, we most commonly hear this question. In fact, many people use the phrase “your own kids” (referring to biological children) in one way or another. Even if well intentioned, the language can be hurtful. First, my two kids are fully my own and they have been since the day we adopted them. Second, this question implies that we are missing something in our family, and in order to be happy or complete as a family, having biological children is necessary. Most importantly, it sends a message to my kids that they are not enough or that they are a less-than replacement for biological children, which could not be further from the truth. I do not need to have biological children to feel complete. There isn’t really a good alternative to this question, so it is better left unasked. “Why did her mom give her up?” There are various versions of this question, including phrases like “give up/put up/give away a child for adoption.” These phrases actually originated from the orphan trains that operated in the United States, beginning in the 1850s. They transported homeless, orphaned, and runaway children from East Coast cities across the country to the Midwest to be adopted by families. After the train stopped in a town, orphan train children were often placed up on a stage in front of a crowd, which is the origin of terms like "put up for adoption." With the exception of a few rare cases, current domestic infant adoption looks very different. In most situations, the expectant mother/parents make a conscious decision to make an adoption plan for their child, and it is certainly not a casual “give up.” Personally, before we adopted our children, we decided we would keep their stories private, so they could each decide if, when, and with whom to share details about their adoption. Therefore, I never discuss the details of my children’s stories with others. That said, while I don’t feel there is ever a need for someone to ask this question, the correct phrasing when referring to an adoption decision would be “place for adoption” or “make an adoption plan.” “Thank you for adopting!” How many mothers of a biological child have ever been thanked by a stranger for birthing their child? I cringe when I am told this because it feels like it's implying that adoptive parents are “heroes for doing something wonderful for these children” (and sometimes it’s been accompanied by an explicit statement along such lines), and that mindset is definitely not the driving force behind why we adopted. I know that many Christians' hearts for adoption are animated heavily by James 1:27 (“look after orphans and widows”), but my husband and I did not pursue adoption primarily as an outpouring of that perspective. Rather, we felt that God had wired us—individually and as a team—in a way where adoption made the most sense for us, and we were truly thrilled to become part of our kids' (and their birth families') lives. I don't ever want my kids to feel like they needed saving or that we did something “noble” by adopting them—God had them in His hand and would have provided for them with or without us. We don't need to be thanked because we are by far the lucky ones to get to be their parents. If our kids' birth parents had decided to parent them instead of placing them for adoption, our kids would not have had a bad life, just a different life than the one they have now with us. “Thank you for being an advocate for orphans!” I understand the heart behind this statement. As Christians, we should absolutely support and advocate for all orphans to find permanent, loving families. The problem here is the assumption that adoption always involves orphans. The phrasing may be accurate with regard to most international adoptions, in which many of the children being placed with families are, in fact, orphans. But that is rarely the case with either foster-care-based adoption or, as in our case, domestic infant adoption. Most children placed through domestic infant adoption have loving birth families who thoughtfully and voluntarily chose adoption as the option that they believed to be best for their child (hopefully with education and counseling from a non-biased adoption agency case worker). The baby almost always still has a biological mother and father, and very often biological siblings and extended family members. I am grateful that my husband and I have very open relationships with both of our kids' birth families and we get to love, honor, respect, and celebrate that part of their lives every day. “I also want to adopt a child because we as Christians are adopted by God.” We often hear some version of this statement from others who are interested in adoption. Many people in the Christian church compare the adoption of a child with being "adopted" into the family of God through salvation in Jesus. They use phrases like "we adopted our child because God adopted us" and base their perspective off of verses like Ephesians 1:4-5 (“He predestined us for adoption to sonship”). The Biblical word “adoption”—as it relates to salvation—describes a person in the posture of being dead in transgressions, without hope, an enemy of God. Being adopted as a child of God reflects the new position of the person, no longer bound to the authority of sin but instead being transformed and having new life in Jesus as a child of God and the promise of heaven. The comparison of modern-day adoption to the Biblical form of adoption has been identified by adoptees as being inaccurate and problematic, as it places the adoptive parents in the "savior" role and implies the child was in a place where he/she needed “saving” from their birth family. This comparison is at best woefully imperfect and it can be hurtful toward the child’s birth family. While I will never doubt that God is in the details of every part of our lives, alternate language should be considered when describing the reasons for adopting. In summary I understand that people are curious when they make comments and ask questions like these, and they likely have good intent. But these statements convey underlying beliefs and perspectives, and they can have an impact on families, especially when made in front of a child who may subconsciously internalize them as part of his or her identity. The messages our kids hear from others influence how they view themselves. Adoption is always complex—and sometimes sensitive—and there are many different paths when it comes to adoption. This is why it’s all the more important that appropriate words be used. I believe that being cognizant of our language and the messages it communicates to others can make a big difference in how we understand ourselves and our relationships with those around us. For reflection:
 On Sunday, during church, I just kept thinking about how Jesus chose to appear to women first when he rose from the dead. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I love thinking about this, and the other ways in which Christ uplifted the dignity of women, and knew them all by name: the woman at the well, the woman who was about to be stoned, the woman and her perfume, his mother, Lazarus' sisters, all the little girls that were included in 'let all the children come to me,' the woman who touched his cloak to heal her bleeding. (Please share the ones I'm missing!)
I love how Christ decides that this very bold and scandalous truth of his return should be entrusted to the women who were not even thought of to be entrusted with such matters.This week was UNICEF's International Day of the Girl Child, and it reminded me of the dream I have that girls will one day be accepted as the professional, political, and spiritual leaders they have been gifted to be. I want my daughter to grow up not only knowing she can be anyone she wants, but seeing that represented in the world around her. I want that for all the daughters around the world. According to the UN World's Women 2020: Trends and Statistics, we have a lot of work to do: In 2020, only 47% of women of working age go to work, while 74% of men of working age go to work.Typically, women spend 3x as much time on unpaid domestic and care work as men. In some areas, it's 7x as much. Women hold less than 30% of managerial positions (data from 2019), and sadly this number hasn't changed since 1995! About one third of women have experienced physical and/or sexual violence by intimate partners, with over 130 women being murdered by an intimate partner or family member every day. I recently read the classic Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston and what struck me most was how differently the majority of the men talked about treating imaginary women compared to how they treated the actual women in their lives. For me, learning to see God as Mother has allowed me to imagine God as fully understanding the female experience: the subjugation, the objectification, the heavier workload, the toll on the body of wanting a child, having a child, not having a child, or not wanting to be pregnant, the domestic violence, subordination in the workplace, misogyny and patriarchy (even and especially in theology), the cat calls, the self doubt, the worry about being seen as beautiful, the tension of living up to others' expectations of what a woman should be. Under the shadow of God's wings, women are there, protected, cared for, advocated for, given voice, given autonomy, given the scandalously good news that their lives matter not just because of how they are (or are not) relationally tied to a father or a husband. These are the women of God, seen and heard and represented in God Herself.  Gina Ruocco, 1927-2022 God bless the life of Gina Ruocco—sister, mother, daughter & grandmother.
God bless the husband of 60 years, and the life and the family, both nuclear and extended that lived in the home. God bless the love between that extended so wide. God bless the twin brother and sister who shared in so many memories, gave and received so much love, and demonstrated mutual loyalty & support & care & respect despite the very different paths they took. God bless the sister who remains, the sister who mothers a city—who learned mothering, at least in part, from her. God bless the brother in law who went before her and gave her so much agita and loved her deeply. God bless the friend turned sister-in-law who died too young and asked her to mother her child. I would not know her as grandma if she didn’t. God bless the families that came from her four children — those children of 179 West Water Street, Little Italy, who threw tomatoes, stole candy, randsacked a cop car’s megaphone, and always behaved in class when the nuns were present. Who grew up to be loving and loved by their families and communities. God bless the home built after the flood that never knew a day without her, because she oversaw its construction by her husband. God bless the overgrown arborvitae trees that she loved and stared at from the outdoor porch. The outdoor rugs, the clothes line and the giant fountain. God bless the grandchildren, who made her proud and made her laugh, and gave her such joy. God bless the great grand children who got their cheeks pinched and may never fully know the glory of her cooking and her sassing and her giant smile. God bless the grandchild who lived with her, took care of her, asked her questions to counteract her worry, and who, even in the third decade of his life, knew to be home at curfew. And knew not to touch the decor. God bless every person who ever ate her cooking. And any who tried to get her to teach them how to replicate her recipes—a pinch there, a cup (not a measuring cup!) here, a handful of this. God bless her caregivers. And the pizzeria staff who reached and drove and retrieved and received such endearing nicknames. God bless HomeGoods—maybe. God bless the life of the woman I was named after who often reminded me that even after she passed, “there will always be a Gina around.” God bless the fact that DNA isn’t the only way to be family. God bless Gina Cecelia — known affectionately by her siblings as Jean, by her children as Mom, and by the generations that followed as Meema.  From my IG video you can find here.
I have a confession to make. I’ve acted violently against myself in showing up on social media. I found myself comparing my life, my writing, my house, my décor, my makeup, my theology with a lot of others on here, especially on Instagram. What I often found was jealousy not joy. Competition not connection. I was getting so overwhelmed with life, work, and being an author, that I decided it wasn’t good for my mental health. So I cut down my Instagram following and my followers not long after my second book came out. I’ve wrestled with continuing to show up there, a lot. But I’ve done quite a bit of work to learn how to belong to myself (I’m still learning), and how to be confident in what I offer and what I hope for from others. So I’m going to try to show up a bit differently moving forward. Videos aren’t something I’ve done a lot, and part of that was due to low self love. But that’s an area I’ve been working hard at too. I like the person I see in the mirror, not just my mind, but my body too. There’s room to grow but I’m on a trajectory I’m proud of. Moving forward with social media videos, I’m going to read what I write. I don’t have time to memorize, and I’m not the best at going off the cuff. I’m OK with that. I work a full time job, and I have two kids, a dog, and cat, a bunch of plants, and I’m a spouse. I think that success from a prosperity mindset says I need to memorize and make this perfect, but I don’t think it’s fair to make this more than I should to myself, my kids, or my spouse. And I want to spend time with them. In fact, I’ve come to believe it’s violence against myself and my dearest ones to place so much pressure on what I produce because the tyranny of production is never satisfied. I’m going to show up sometimes with makeup and my hair done, but most of the time not. Because that’s real life. I’m going to share my thoughts and be as fully human as I can be. I just got home from giving a talk about Violence and Victory (based on my Violence & Victory article at Red Letter Christians) – my premise is that if we seek victory rather than justice we will never actually find shalom. Victory is individualized. Victory presupposes a winner and a loser. This is what studying God’s abundance has shown me. I’ll get more into it in the coming videos, but for now, I just want to confess that as a writer and speaker, I often find myself seeking victory. It’s easier than seeking justice. It’s what a lot of people are doing because we’re told it’s the only way. Victory is a bigger platform, a larger following, another book contract, etc. But when we seek the best for ourselves above all else, we lose ourselves along the way. We have to reject this if we really believe in collective abundance, in the flourishing of all. What does victory look like for you in your arena of life? In what ways does that provoke you to look at others around you as competition rather than as neighbors? I’m going to work towards being nonviolent to myself even on social media. I’ve long turned off notifications and been mindful of my time on the socials, but there’s more that can be done. And I need to find a way to practice abundance even here. I hope you can find ways to practice it in whatever spaces you are a part of too. If you’re feeling it, comment below and name one way you can reject the violence of social media? This guest post is written by Eliza Stewart. Eliza (she/her) is a young South African with a USA passport taking a year between high school and the rest of her life to do some travelling, learning, and listening.  What does it mean to travel to a place, not to consume it, but just to be there? I don’t want to go somewhere because I feel entitled to because my mom was born within the borders of the “USA” and I have access to it legally because of my passport. I want to think about the places I’m going beyond what they can do for me and my gap year. I will grow more from my gap year if it is not completely focused on me, which might seem ironic to those of us who’ve been taught gap years are meant for us to find ourselves. I just finished reading Harsha Walia’s book Border & Rule, a book which investigates the function of borders - politically, socially, culturally and economically. And as a South African currently traveling in the USA so much around me has me thinking about borders. Thinking about how easily I move through borders. Thinking about why I am, because of my identity as a white person and a USA citizen, permitted to move so easily through borders. Thinking about the whole system. As a child you don’t really think about countries and borders and the whole system as anything but natural, but Walia and others have shown me a different way. Walia explains that the function of borders is to restrict the movement of people, while the movement of capital and goods is ensured. People are declared illegal, while the surplus value they produce never is. Humans and land are turned into commodities (made for exchange). The conversion of land into property is directly related to the conversion of people into property. Movement across borders, legal or illegal, is used in service of capitalists to accumulate capital. The border does not work against globalised capital, it works in service of it. Free capital requires bordered and immobilised labour. She says: Borders do not protect labor; the border is a bundle of relations and mode of governance acting as a spatial fix for capital to segment labor... Simply put, borders manufacture divisions within the international working class. Borders are exploited by the class-conscious ruling class through outsourcing and insourcing to weaken collective bargaining rights and working-class resistance to transnational capital and its austerity measures. One of my favourite YouTubers, Saint Andrew, quotes in his Abolish Borders video “The border is not just a wall. It’s not just a line on a map. It’s not any particular physical location. It’s a power structure, a system of control. The border is everywhere that people live in fear of deportation, everywhere migrants are denied the rights accorded citizens, everywhere human beings are segregated into included and excluded. The border does not divide one world from another. There is only one world, and the border is tearing it apart… In our ‘free’ and ‘post-colonial’ world what was once the norm is now criminalized...There is nothing necessary or inevitable about borders.” One example where this is happening is in Hawai’i. Indigenous Hawai’ians have been saying that they don’t want tourists on their land, especially right now. Hawai’ians are being asked to reduce their water usage due to intense water shortages while tourists are allowed to move freely over the land consuming and consuming. Hawai’i is seen as nothing but a pretty backdrop, and the people props, for vacations. It is the most basic level of respect to not travel to Hawaii right now, yet thousands of tourists are. I don’t want to be like them or think like them that I am entitled to go somewhere just because the border allows me to. (This is an amazing video from Haunani-Kay Trask that shows her response to the US American occupation of Hawai’i and her identity as a Hawai’ian). When I am old, I will tell you I remember learning about freedom beyond anthems and passports. And how we never went back once we knew the kind of love bound only by shorelines, prairie skies, and forest floors.” How do I travel through the world as one member of the tiniest group that has open access to the world’s borders? How do I travel not just being aware of the power I have because of how I am racialised, but as someone humbly coming into spaces as a guest? How do I interact with the world with all of these thoughts of borders, and entitlement, and division coming together? I don’t want to be an entitled traveler. I don’t want my gap year to be predatory. I don’t want to gain my own feelings of independence and growth through the harm of others. I don’t want people and places to just serve as props for my journey. I just don’t really know how to do this well. “In this new space one can imagine safety without walls, can iterate difference that is prized but unprivileged, and can conceive of a third, if you will pardon the expression, world ‘already made for me, both snug and wide open, with a doorway never needing to be closed.’ Home.” If you have thoughts about any of this, I would love to hear and discuss, email me [email protected] or message me on IG @lizatiser.
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